A lifetime of family vacations shaped the author’s sense of time and travel, emphasizing the importance of simply being present
By Sam Walker
It’s been said that humans are marvelous sensing instruments. Smells, sounds and sights can be powerful triggers of memory and story. This has been especially true for me in experiences of summer. Long before there were Currituck sunsets or Oak Island strolls, there was the back seat of an old Buick on its annual trek from a Philadelphia suburb to the Jersey Shore. Stuffed in between bedding, a Samsonite suitcase and the dreaded summer reading books, I’d try to fall asleep.
What air conditioning? In the early ’50s, blasts of summer air through open windows and parents’ cigarette smoke made the trip a torture to be endured. Mercifully, a two-lane road called the Black Horse Pike signaled hope. The last turn, air changing, the night quieter and rest came. That is, until the fragrance of marsh and tidal mud flats began to stir my consciousness. Low tide brought high hopes of adventure; and something else I came to realize — a peace awakened, a settling of spirit I still treasure.
Time turned into an overstuffed station wagon and a bright orange, slightly rusted VW “Thing” winding down the final stretch of a Maine coast road. Passing Harmon’s store and the sign for Prouts Neck, the energy of anticipation grew feverish. Songs learned the previous summer swelled, as the caravan crossed the finish line and acknowledged the welcome wave from Nick, the rotund summer cop.
Down the lanes shouts of friends reunited mixed with the laughter of the children who simply had to have the bikes unloaded first. Off they went with shrieks of “come on” in the hope that pals not seen in a year would be back at the same old cottage. The coolers moved to the fridge but all else could wait. Neighbors hugged and hollered “hey” across porches and driveways. Magic beckoned with sounds of stories from circles of beach chairs, cookouts on the rocks by the bay, evening sing-a-longs, and “hoots” from a sea glass cave at low tide — maybe a piece of blue this year. On the first new morning, birdsong joined the quiet harmonies of the sea, rendering a settling of the spirit once again.
As years and family grew, a new oasis was discovered. Vistas framed by ancient live oaks draped in moss welcomed us for several summers to the wonder and mystery of the Lowcountry. Causeways connected islands, finally leading to the one most seaward. Fripp Island, named for a clever swashbuckler and steeped in lore of pirates and Gullah heritage, boasts wide beaches sloping gently to an ocean that can be both tranquil and treacherous.
Early morning bike rides featured a tapestry of colors — great blue heron, snowy white egrets, slumbering gators the shade of mud and forest, brilliant oleander, and always the oaks. Presence mattered. Time did not.
The island store had a special nook with shelves of Pat Conroy books. He lived on Fripp, and the proceeds from book sales helped support the island conservancy. I hoped I would run into Pat, be invited for supper and chat about how his stories always touched something in me. He once told an interviewer, “I write to try and explain my life to myself.” I savored everything he gave us. I missed seeing him then, and hear him now in the words he left behind.
During one such island visit, a beachside afternoon of umbrellas, dolphins and parades of brown pelicans was jolted by a low-flying rescue chopper. The tranquil sandbar of yesterday had, without warning, turned into a treacherous riptide that would tragically claim a young life. I stood with the family at water’s edge. Presence mattered. Time did not.
Even now the scene is vivid. The seemingly blissful world of live oaks and blue heron can also hold scars of sadness. At eventide that day, the pelicans returned gliding low along a now-deserted beach. It seems that life has times when spirits are shattered, but always, I believe, with the promise of place and memories that settle us once again. PS
Sam Walker, a retired minister, maintains a curiosity about life and is an old friend of PineStraw.
